


don't matter if i fall from the sky

by hdnprplflwrs



Series: birds flying high/you know how i feel [1]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Background Zak Ahmed/Darryl Noveschosch, Bets are made, Boys In Love, Cats, Dream needs help, Drunken Shenanigans, Flowers, Fluff, Gen, George has weapons-grade emotional repression, Hurt/Comfort, I just don't wanna add winged everyone and flood the tags, Idiots in Love, Language of Flowers, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Karl Jacobs/Sapnap, Pining Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Pining GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Sleepyboisinc - Freeform, Winged Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Winged Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Winged TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), and just happen to have wings, everyone has wings dw dw, if all the swear words are not:tm: swear words does it still count as pg13, minor antfrost/red, nooooooo why are their real names in the tags noooooooo, not the movie, singing for 2 sentences straight, the amigops, they live in treehouses, why are those not tags????, winged au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:54:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29362089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hdnprplflwrs/pseuds/hdnprplflwrs
Summary: “What the––”The thing about living in a semi-avian society is that there are no walls in anyone’s home. People just don’t bother. There’s an unspoken rule: you don’t touch my stuff, I won't touch yours.(It’s pretty easy to find out who’s been rooting through your food when it takes an hour, tops, to confront everyone about your missing strawberries.)George’s home ––George’s home isdrenchedin flowers.[a Valentine's Day fic: five things Dream gives George, and one thing George gives Dream.]
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: birds flying high/you know how i feel [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2174955
Comments: 20
Kudos: 168





	1. ⎎⌰⍜⍙⟒⍀⌇

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to [lieyuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lieyuu/pseuds/lieyuu) for being an amazing mutual beta! their works are ABSOLUTELY gorg and just *chef's kiss.*
> 
> I have some pretty big projects coming up–– I really want to branch out into other fandoms as well as still create for most of the ones I've already posted. it's gonna be exciting !!!
> 
> (also, please do not share this with any cc's !!! leaving this unlocked for now, but that might change depending on the circumstances.)
> 
> hope you enjoy!

“What the––”

The thing about living in a semi-avian society is that there are no walls in anyone’s home. People just don’t bother. There’s an unspoken rule: you don’t touch my stuff, I won't touch yours.

That being said, many winged folk live in small clusters of around twenty or so. It’s pretty easy to find out who’s been rooting through your food when it takes an hour, tops, to confront everyone about your missing strawberries.

George’s home ––

George’s home is _drenched_ in flowers.

All kinds: willow, yellow carnations, and daisies. Marigolds. Cyclamen. Rhododendrons, candytuft, tansies. Lavender. Hyacinths. Black roses and aloe.

George isn’t _stupid_ , okay, he knows what these flowers mean.

The insufferable fact isn’t that they basically all tell him to shuck himself.

It’s that they’re _everywhere_.

Woven into his nest. Dripping from the lanterns he’d strung up. In bouquets off the simple wooden chair he’d hewn with his own hands, almost hiding its beautiful royal blue color. Stuffed into the baskets where he stores his fruit.

He _gets_ , it, okay, he _shucking gets it_.

All of the flowers, for the most part, are blues, yellows, and whites. So whoever did this was very clearly aware that he is colorblind.

 _Thanks for the consideration_ , George thinks sarcastically.

There’s enough blue and yellows to make at least a few nice jars of blue and yellow paint. The leaves will supply him enough green paint to last him the rest of his life, but he can probably pawn those off to some dwarves for some more quivers of arrows.

George hangs his bag on one of the posts that line his home, touching down on his landing ledge. His wings fold behind him neatly, cobalt feathers shuffling comfortably into position.

It’ll be ridiculously tedious, trying to get all the flowers out of his house and neatly bundled up and prepared for drying.

The hours pass by in the careful pulls and tugs of his small knife, the rasp of twine in his palms, the feathery brushes of flower petals on his fingertips. He starts with the ones on the floor, then in his eating and cooking space. He pricks himself on hastily cut thorns a few times, but just sucks the blood away. There’ll be time to heal his wounds, once all the bouquets are strung up to dry in an empty closet.

“What are you doing?”

George’s knife slips, nearly shaving skin off of his finger. 

“Dream!” George shouts, embarrassingly flushing pink. He glares at the green (or yellow)-winged menace slowly flying in a circle around his tree house. “What was that for?”

Dream has the audacity to shrug midair. “I asked first.”

George waves his knife dismissively at the flowers littering his workspace, cheeks still burning. “Dealing with all these shucken’ things.” He goes back to trimming the thorns on the rose bouquet he’s working on. “I thought you wouldn’t be back from visiting the Amigops for another day.”

Dream just shrugs again, landing delicately onto George’s landing pad. “Lud, Jack, and Ash were there already and I didn’t want to impose. Oh! That reminds me ––” he rummages through the messenger bag that’s omnipresent at his side, “Lud wanted me to give this to you.”

Dream passes a beautifully crafted yellow envelope over just as he reaches enough altitude to land on George’s landing pad.

Lud always liked messing around with potato stamps and beeswax. George carefully pulls off the wax seal, which has an imprint of the glasses that George wears in the daytime to keep the sun out of his eyes, and places it carefully in a jar with all the wax seals Lud’s ever sent him. It’s a pretty funny joke between them, Lud the wordsmith and George the collector. He’ll need to send Ludwig some new book covers to make up for the new addition.

George feels Dream’s presence over his shoulder as he slowly unfolds the envelope. Written in Lud’s signature large, loopy style are the words, “100 kisses for beating me at archery, as promised.”

“Wait, what?” Dream exclaims as George scans through the rest of the messages scattered on the paper –– Jack wants to go out for some cloudy next time George visits; Rae, Sykkuno, and Tina sent over some pastries (“Give me the pastries, Dream!” “Okay, fine, here you go! Stop pulling my feathers off!”); Toast just wrote “your algorithm is wrong but whatever” and Corpse scribbled his name in a corner of the card.

He flips the card over and bursts into laughter.

True to his word, Ludwig has peppered the back of the card with what seems to be a hundred berry kisses.

“What the shuck?” Dream says as George keels over, tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes.

George rolls over onto his back, cackling as Lud’s letter shakes in his hands. “I can’t believe–– I can’t believe he actually––” He had to stop to actually shucking _breathe_ , he was laughing so hard. 

“Are you done yet?” Dream asks, a slightly disgruntled expression on his face. His wings rustle restlessly behind him.

George catches a glimpse of the stacks of bouquets that he has yet to finish behind Dream and his laughter dies down. “Yeah.” He flails his arms wildly in the air. “Help me up?”

Dream sighs, but grabs one of George’s hands and tugs him into a standing position. George brushes himself off, folding the envelope neatly back in its original position. He tucks it into the drawer on his worktable.

The Amigops and J10 societies are some of the most fun groups George has ever had the pleasure of meeting. He hopes he’ll see them soon.

He picks up one of his larger knives, taking a bouquet of roses from his pile. Raising it over his head, he slams it onto the end of the bouquet so hard Dream nearly hits his head on the ceiling in surprise, wings unfolding and flapping frantically.

“What the _clicknak_ , George?! Why are you––” Dream gestures wildly at the ends of the stems that George had just thrown into his compost chute. “The poor flowers!”

George just scoffed. “These flowers are scuffed anyways. I’m making paint.”

“They’re scuffed? Why are they scuffed?”

George picks at the twine holding the bouquet together. “I mean, I don’t need any more reminders of why I need to shuck myself, but––”

“Wait, what do you mean?” Dream picks up a bouquet.

“The flower meanings, Dream, they––”

Dream just blinks at him. “Those are red roses, though.”

George stares back at him.

“Well, how the shuck am I supposed to know _that_ , Dream?”

Dream’s eyes widen as the realization sets in. “Oh. Right.”

George scoffs, setting the bouquet of roses aside. He carefully jiggles one from the hold of the other roses, picking up his small knife once more.

“What do they all mean, then?” Dream asks quietly, picking up a bouquet of willow.

George gestures at the bouquet in Dream’s hands. “Sadness.” He holds up a stray yellow flower on his table. “Tansies, declaring war.”

“These?”

“Marigolds, rhododendrons, southernwood. Despair, danger, jest. Hyacinths –– constancy and jealousy. Columbines, foolishness. Yellow carnations: disdain, disappointment, rejection. Black roses, death.”

“They’re red, George.”

George just stares at the bouquet he’s working on. He looks back up at Dream, who’s holding a bouquet of candytuft with an unreadable expression on his face. “I don’t think it’s any better if I’m seeing it as black, then. Dark red roses mean mourning.”

“Right,” Dream says, but it sounds forced.

“Basically, the whole––” George waves his hands around at all of the flowers “––mess means that it’s supposed to be taken as an insult. They’re calling me foolish and disappointing, wishing me a fall from grace, so to speak.”

“Right,” Dream says again in that weird voice. George opens his mouth, about to ask him what’s wrong, but sees the yellow expanse of Dream’s wings on his landing platform.

Dream turns around, saluting to George. “I gotta deliver more packages, but I’ll see you around, Georgie!”

“W ––” The rest of the word falls to no one as Dream’s wings beat into the air, spiraling around Sapnap’s tree in the distance.

George shrugs and goes back to his flowers.

(What is the sinking feeling in his stomach, you may ask? It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.)

* * *

“Dream, Dream, Dream, Dream, Dream,” Lud says, an arm slung around his shoulders. He gestured grandly at everything and nothing, taking a deep breath in and exhaling. “You need to show George how much you love him and care for him, you know, you, you, you need something big. Something _grandiose_. Something he won’t be able to miss.”

“I mean, you could just get him flowers,” Rae says from where she’s preening Corpse’s left wing. Sykkuno nods in agreement, slowly tugging out a dead pitch-black feather from Corpse’s right. 

“Yeah!” Tina says, pale yellow wings fluttering like a butterfly’s as she rises from where she’s been stirring a pot of soup. (How does she do that all the time? It’s so tiring.) “I like it when people give me flowers. Especially, uhm. Oh! Roses! I have quite a lot in my garden, if you’d like some?”

“Uhhhh, yeah! Yeah, sure, I ––”

“Just give him all of them, Tina,” Ludwig winks, pushing him off the edge of Rae’s home. Rae shrieks in glee, Corpse chuckling as Dream rights himself in the air. He sticks a finger in Lud’s direction as Tina follows him in a spiral around Rae's tree.

“Shuck you, Ludwig!” Dream shouts as he lets Tina fall below him so he can follow her onto the ground floor, where her garden lies.

They land a few feet away from where Jack is cracking open coffee bean pods. He turns as they approach, holding a hand in greeting. “Going into the greenhouse? Toast’s rummaging around the larkspurs.”

Tina gasps. “He’s going to poison someone! Oh, no, _Tooooooooast_.”

She dashes off, toes barely touching the floor as she runs into the large greenhouse in the center of the Amigops’ trees.

Jack chuckles.

Dream tilts his head at him questioningly.

“Toast’s getting our flour milled,” Jack says. He hands out a small bag of coffee beans. “Bad was the one who wanted coffee, yes?”

“Yeah,” Dream says, pocketing it into his messenger bag. _Bad’ll like the design_. “Oh! Bad sent over some muffins, they’re the, uh, blueberry cinnamon kind.”

“Nice!” Jack pats Dream’s shoulder. “Good luck with George, by the way.”

He takes off, orange, white, and green feathers beating upwards towards the tree house. Dream watches him go.

“Tina, that's so many _flowers_! What the _clicknak_?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tina pog


	2. ☊⏃⏁

There’s a cat in George’s nest.

He awakens to a little black cat sitting in a blanket nest in his lap.

That cat is bad luck, George knows. But it is also a cat.

The cat is very cute.

He reaches from beneath his mound of blankets to pet the cat, rubbing in between its ears. It purrs contentedly, its plush fur silky smooth under his fingers.

George sneezes. His wings flare open reflexively, letting in the cold morning air blast him in the face.

Well. He’s awake now.

George stands up, letting his blankets fall back into his nest. The cat lands on his floor, purring up a storm as it searches for a new spot to be warm in.

George yawns widely, joints popping as he stretches to his full wingspan in both armature and actual wings. He jumps out of his nest, spreading his wings just enough for his feet to land on the floor without making any noise. The cat winds around his legs as he changes out of his pajamas and into a shirt and pants, buttoning up the slits that allow the shirt to go over his wings.

He checks his flowers, sweeping out the small amount of leaves and petals that have already fallen in the first few days of drying. He shoos the cat out of the closet.

George’s breakfast is simple: a few of Bad’s new peanut tchocolatl muffins and hot coffee courtesy of Jack. He gives the cat the rest of the leftover cooked fish that he had for dinner the night before.

Today, he was going to bring the Greater’s wares to the elves to see what they could trade for. Usually, Ant’s armor and Bad’s pastries brought in some good trades. Dream also had a pretty good amount of redne pearls to trade as well from his own bartering with warglins.

George sneezed.

He had just enough brainpower to think, _well, this isn’t good_ , before he looked down at his arms.

At the angry red rashes now peppering his (fairly pale) skin.

_This is definitely not good._

George stumbles towards his landing pad, chest tightening, squeezing the air from his lungs. His head spinning in rapidly increasing pain, he tries to focus on Bad’s landing pad.

Creator, his whole body is itchy. If he could slough off his skin and molt like a grasshopper, he would.

He launches off his landing platform, trying to at least hold his wings steady so that he could at least make it to Bad’s in one piece.

The constant sneezing makes it hard to follow your flight path, however.

He’s halfway there when the black starts to appear at the edges of his vision.

_This is, in fact, very, very, bad._

George blacks out midair.

* * *

George is sleeping against something very soft and warm and solid.

The soft and warm and solid thing murmurs, shifting George around and losing some of the heat that made the soft and warm and solid thing so comfortable in the first place.

George whines, tightening his arms around the comfy thing and digging his face deeper into someone’s neck.

Someone further away says something. The comfy person rumbles. George holds on tighter.

His head still hurts, but it’s less of an insistent throbbing and now more of an ever present ache. His nose is kind of clogged, but it’s fine for now. He can still breathe.

He shifts his head from where it’s resting on a bright yellow shoulder –– _Dream’s_ shoulder, no one else wears green –– to crack one bleary eye open.

Bad’s stirring something on a small fire, Ant hovering over his shoulder. Sapnap’s fiddling with something on the table, his fire-colored wings rustling anxiously.

A hand cards through his hair, pushing his sweaty curls away from his face. George hums before burying his forehead once more in Dream’s neck.

His head hurts too much to be thinking at a time like this.

“Dream,” Bad says, “can you wake up George? He needs to eat something; it’s almost dinner time.”

He hears Dream mumble something in response. He feels the hand on his back stop moving (when did that happen?) and a poke in his side. “Georgie, wake up.”

“’m tired,” George says into Dream’s neck. “‘m sleepy, don’t bother me.”

“George!” Dream exclaims incredulously. “That tickles!”

“You’re warm,” George mumbles.

His stomach growls.

“I’m hungry.”

“Here,” Dream murmurs, shifting George in his lap so that he could help George raise a bowl of soup to his lips.

It’s one of the spicier ones Bad makes, with smaller pieces of vegetables and fish. George downs the whole thing quickly and sloppily, already feeling soup dribble down his chin. As soon as the bowl (and his chin) is clean, he’s back into Dream’s arms, the soup already working its magic.

Bad walks around his nest, sitting down facing George. “I’m just going to take the patches off and see if the rashes have gone down, okay, George?”

George hadn't even noticed the bandages on his arms (Bad’s just that good of a medic). “Mhm.”

George watches Bad slowly unwrap the bandages from one arm. He remembers them being very angry pink and red gashes, but they’ve faded since then to a pale pink color. George thinks the rashes complement his wings quite nicely.

“What –– what do you think might’ve caused this, George?” Bad asks as he cleans the rest of the salve off with a cloth.

“I found a cat in my nest,” George mumbles. He feels Dream pause at that, as if he’d stopped breathing. “I think ’m allergic to cats.”

“Mm,” Bad hums. “I think that’s what it is. Stay away from cats from now on, okay, Georgie? We don’t need you passing out in midair again.”

“Mhm,” George agrees, before he’s conked out again.

* * *

“Dream ––” Niki tries over the sound of Tubbo’s raucous laughter. “Well, you didn’t mean any harm by it, I ––”

“I don’t know, Niki,” Fundy says as Eret manically chases after Tubbo. “I mean, it’s not looking good for him, innit?”

“But you have a chance to make it up to him!” Niki elbows Fundy in his side (“Ow!”). “Is there something else you could give him, so he doesn’t feel too bad about the flowers?”

“I don’t want to screw it up again,” Dream mutters, shifting in his seat. “What if I” –– he flaps his hands around in the air “–– I don’t know, give him something worse by accident?”

Fundy coughs, which sounds suspiciously like “you did that already, mate.” Niki shoots a glare at him and Fundy curls into himself. “Sorry.”

She takes the hand nervously tapping on her table, smoothing out the skin on his knuckles.

(“Dream is bad with gi-rls! Dream is bad with — wait, but George is a boy.”

“What about that, Tubbo?”

Tubbo pauses in Eret’s arms, brows scrunching up in thought.

“Dream is bad with boy-s! Dream is bad with boy-s!”)

“Dream, George won’t be upset with you,” Niki says, soft blue eyes boring into his own. “He loves you as much as you love him; I’m sure you’ll laugh later on, looking back on the flower incident.”

“Not in the way ––” Dream’s wings rustle restlessly. He breaks eye contact with Niki, staring down at one of Tubbo’s crudely carved drawings in the deep oak of the table.

Niki smiles gently, a sparkle in her eyes. “I think you’ll find the opposite.”

“On another note,” Fundy offers, looking somewhat abashed, “we have an excess of cats. Want one?”

Dream picks the black one for George and a gray one for himself. He names his cat Patches.

Patches and George’s cat sit in a wicker basket, bobbing along with the beat of Dream’s wings as he smiles into the barely-there morning.

* * *

Dear Niki,

Dream is NOT in love with me. He is NOT.

I wouldn’t say that I am in love with him. Not yet, at least. I’m simply biding my time. 

It’ll be awkward, considering Karl, Skeppy, and Red all live in the Rapids. They’d give us grief anyways, but I feel terrible thinking of me with Dream whilst all our other halves are two thousand ticks away.

I just have… a mild liking for Dream. I like him more than a friend. That’s all.

~~I know you say that the other slipper won’t drop but I am not getting my hopes up~~

~~I can barely admit this to myself Niki, send HELP~~

Ciao, 

George

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmmm....might come back and add more writing. not totally confident in this fic ngl :)


	3. ⏁⊑⟒ ⋏⍜⏁☊⊑ ⏃⌿⌿⌰⟒

Dream’s already left for the Sleepy Bois when George wakes up again, still in Bad’s nest and feeling back to normal.

Ant had done the trades that George was supposed to do the day before. He’d left George’s trades in his tree house; nothing important, just some ingredients for potions and palatable meals and such.

He hears a snigger to his right. Sapnap’s wing bumps into his when George tries to unfold his wings. Bad’s black wings fully enclose him from view on George’s other side.

George just sighs, easing his way out of his little mess of blankets and trying not to jostle Bad too much with his wings. He climbs uneasily over the edge of Bad’s nest, stretching his wings once he’s sure he won’t wake him up.

(If he cuffs Sapnap on the head with his primaries, well. That’s Sapnap’s fault.)

Bad’s tree house is the best one out of the Greater as well as the oldest. It spans the full length of the branches, sanded down so much it’s almost glassy. Numerous wind chimes hang from every edge of each floor, making music that spans a myriad of avian societies scattered around the globe.

Bad actually has  _ carpet _ , wool spun into thousands of colorful threads and shuttered through a loom. It’s like a blanket, but much rougher and for decoration.

George likes the designs. They’re all swirly and bright, intricate edges and dots creating a beautiful woven pattern.

There’s still soup on the stove, so George stokes the fire underneath to warm it up. He grabs a few other vegetables from Bad’s supply to zhuzh it up a little.

“Ge _ ooooooorgie _ .”

“Mm.”

“George.”

“Hm.”

“Gogalicious.”

George whirls around, crossing his arms and glaring at Sapnap. “What the clicknak do you want?”

Sapnap waggles his eyebrows, a wide grin spreading across his face, visible between his fiery wings. “So.”

“What do you want, Quipnap?”

“How did it feel, getting all cozy with Dream-y-poo?”

“Shuck off.” George feels his ears burn and he turns away, whistling as if Sapnap doesn’t know what his inflamed ears mean.

“You’re useless,” Sapnap says. “The both of you. Absolute idiots.”

“How are we useless?” George mutters as he stirs in the new vegetables. “Dream does the messenger stuff and I do trades; we’re not useless.”

He turns around with two bowls of soup to see Sapnap repeatedly hitting the back of his head on one of the poles that line Bad’s tree house.

* * *

George spends the whole next day farming mushrooms, potatoes, and wheat.

(By farming, he means just checking on soil hydration and if anything needs to be picked, including weeds and other unwanted things.)

Ant’s the one who does the farming usually, and he’s very particular about it (with good reason). It’s simply as a thank you for doing George’s trades while he was sick.

The sun beats down on his wings as he tugs up stray crabgrass from between the wheat stalks. George’s shirt’s already off, tossed haphazardly in the general direction of Ant’s chair when he started sweating profusely.

George tosses the weeds in his hands into his bucket. He squints at a nearby cloud, doing some mental calculations with the sun positioning and shuck like that.  _ There should be a few vargas until sunset _ .

Dream should be back soon, if he and Techno haven’t decided to get into another scrap again.

(You know, it’s not like he’s, like, becoming increasingly worried about whether or not Dream is okay given the flight to the Sleepy Bois is over a varga,  _ psssssssh _ , who do you take him for?)

George stretches, arm and wing joints popping in relief as he yawns. He trudges out of the wheat field and grabs his canteen, downing the rest of the water in one gulp.

_ Thunk _ .

“What the shuck, Dream?!” George shrieks as he tries to stop his wings from shooting him into the sky. “What was that for?”

“Sorry!” Dream’s face is a blotchy red as he scrambles to pick up the items that had spilled out of his bag as it fell onto the stone pathway.

It’s odd, George thinks as he helps Dream pick up his parcels. Dream avoids looking at George, just mutters to himself and counts all of the packages. His brows are furrowed, golden eyes stormy as if he’s annoyed with something.

George’s jaw tightens. He shoves the bitterness crawling up his throat down into a box to deal with later.

(Dream would tell him, right? Dream would tell him if he’s not––)

“Hey, where’d you get this?”

George holds up a Notch apple. Dream blanches.

“Uhhh––”

George glances between the spluttering Dream and the app––  _ wait a minute _ .

He holds it so close to his face he feels like he’s going cross eyed and pokes the apple with his nail.

It breaks the golden surface easily.

George cracks a smile. “Dream, why do you have a fake Notch apple?”

“Waiwaiwaiwaiwaiwaiwait, lemme see lemmesee _ lemmesee _ –– GEORGE!” Dream exclaims as George giggles, holding the apple as far as he could away from Dream’s grabby hands. “Lemmesee the apple ––  _ GEORGE _ !”

“It’s a fake Notch apple; what do you want with––  _ Dream _ !” Dream jumps in the air, easily snatching the apple from George’s grasp. He sets down nearby, doing his own examination of the golden painted apple.

Dream curses under his breath, pocketing the fake Notch apple. “George, I have ‘ta–– I have ‘ta go, but I’ll give you your packages tomorrow, okay?”

Without looking back, Dream takes a running start towards his own tree, flying off like the sun disappearing in the dusk.

George thinks the sight of him leaving is becoming more frequent these days.

* * *

"You gave him flowers," Wilbur says, factually. In a quieter tone: "which, okay, I could've warned you about those flower meanings, but whatever."

Dream shifts uncomfortably. His pine chair, as crafted by the Elder Philza, is much harder than the comforting spruce of the Greater, or Niki’s warm oak. He’s not sure if that’s making this interrogation worse or if it’s just him. “Yeah.”

“And a cat.”

“Yeah.”

Wilbur inhales deeply through his nose, his steepled hands pressing against his mouth. “Hmm.”

“Tell me again how you got into this mess?” Techno deadpans, taking a sip from his tea. The kettle under his elbow starts to shriek. Techno’s gaze does not leave Dream’s rapidly reddening face as he slowly takes it off the fire.

Dream mumbles something under his breath.

“Pardon?”

“He finished molting a month ago and it was super painful for him and–and I––” Dream sighs, wings flaring. He forces them to relax. “You know?”

Wilbur sits back in his chair, raising an eyebrow at Techno. Dream watches them have a silent conversation, which ends in Techno sighing. “You owe me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wilbur grins, waving a hand at Techno.

Dream glances between the two of them. “What? What are you ––  _ oh _ .”

Techno rummages in the satchel permanently attached to his hip. His hand surfaces, a Notch apple in his palm. The gold glows with the purple sheen of Enchantment in the dimming light of the sun as Techno offers it to Dream.

“The one-stop shop for all your medical needs,” Wilbur says. “Including exceedingly painful molting sessions. Never expires or loses Enchantment –– at least, in the lifespan of a Winged.”

Dream picks his jaw up from off the floor. “There’s no way–– that must’ve taken forever to find –– there’s no way I can take that.”

“Oh, you’re taking it.” Techno turns his hand upside down, letting the apple fall towards the table.

(Dream has no choice but to catch it, like, it’s a shucking  _ Notch _ apple. Those are impossibly hard to uncover.)

“I–I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say nothing,” Wilbur advises. “Think of it as retribution for bringing us Niki’s pastries to us this fast, how about that.”

“Nonono, nonononono,” Techno pushes Will’s face with his hand enough to tip his chair back. He turns to Dream, a glint in his eye. “We get to say ‘We told you so’ when George falls into your arms like the main character you are.”

Dream splutters. Wilbur barks out a laugh, batting Techno’s hand away from his face.

“That, and you have to be this punctual because pastries for the next three visits.”

(Tommy sees Dream put Techno’s only Notch apple into his bag and frowns.

He’s seen the cuts on Techno’s hands and body from that adventure, that time he found the Notch apple. When his brother told the story of traversing numerous dungeons and rummaging through rotting chests as Phil bandaged his chest.

Besides, it’s always fun to mess with Dream (bratchny).)

(Techno bursts onto his floor a few hours after Dream’s taken off, brandishing the Notch apple. “Tommy, what the shuck did you do with my Notch apple? Why do I still have it?”

Tommy blinked. “I saw Dream take it.”

Wilbur’s russet wings appear behind Techno’s pale pink ones. “Wait, he didn’t take the Notch apple?”

Techno shows Wilbur the Notch apple in his hand. Wilbur sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Creator, Tommy, you’ve just screwed us in the betting pool.”)

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love sbi so much they're so chaotic


	4. ⏚⌰⎍⟒⏚⟒⍀⍀⊬ ⟒⊬⟒⌇

Nights with the full moon were always George’s favorite.

Their little commune would gather around a campfire in the center of their trees, sharing a meal and having fun until the stars and the moon goaded them back into slumber.

It was a circle of trees before, that they’d found when they were younger and more reckless. They’d pinned up boards onto the branches as makeshift beds, choosing to chase each other around and think of, you know, important things such as food and water.

(At some point, they would all end up chasing Dream, always the best flier, and trying to catch him in their little patch of forest. They still do now, to hearken back to way back when. So far the score was 284 to 326, Dream leading.)

When the trees grew too close together for comfort (and Sapnap somehow kept setting the branches on fire), they took axes to the trees, using them to (properly) make Bad’s tree house. The stumps remained.

It was inevitable for Ant, Bad, Dream, George, and Sapnap to grow apart, crafting tales of their own. At least for a bit.

They’d always come back to this ring of trees. It started as an impromptu thing, Bad dragging them all back to the Greater to tell stories. Now it’s officially Full Moon Night, and anyone who misses it gets it.

(George has gotten  _ it _ once, and he would never,  _ ever _ like to repeat the experience.)

Sometimes other societies would join them in these campfire nights; more often than not, it was the Rapids. The Rapids are so close to the Greater that they would’ve (and should’ve) formed one commune a long time ago if they didn’t need the space to, quite literally, spread their wings.

George would be more disgusted at all the couples around the campfire if they all weren’t all varyingly blitzed on cloudy and if the couples were, y’know. Actually couple-y.

Karl patiently holds a glass of cloudy out of Sapnap’s arms reach, giggling at the pouty faces Sapnap keeps making at him. “You’re already pretty blitzed, Sap, you don’t need any more.”

(George honestly does not know how that happened. One day, Sapnap came back looking super pissy, the next day he appeared with a huge grin on his face and a new bracelet around his wrist.)

Skeppy and Bad are just holding onto each other, conversing quietly with each other. Skeppy’s sky blue wings wrap protectively against Bad’s dark red ones, the flickering fire barely illuminating their faces.

Quackity’s ….. somewhere. George can never keep track of him, even when clear. Probably trying to concoct a plan to antagonize George.

Wait, never mind. He’s hunched over his guitar, making either music or dissonance; George can’t tell the difference at this point.

Red’s stroking Ant’s hair, who’s asleep on his lap. Occasionally, Red will lean down to press a kiss to Ant’s forehead, and George will shift his gaze to the fire.

( _ What he wouldn’t give to have that–– _ )

Dream’s primaries brush against the tops of George’s wings as he drops more logs in the fire. It flares up, settling down as Dream pokes at it with their fire rod to shift the logs into place.

“You doing good there, Georgie?”

“Mhm,” George says, downing the rest of his cloudy. He reaches for the cloudy jar, only to find it taken away.

“Dreeeea _ aaaaaam _ .”

Dream grins as George reaches for the cloudy jar in Dream’s hands, catching himself on Dream’s shirt to avoid bowling them both over. “How many glasses did you have to drink already, George?”

“Mmmm, two,” George says, tugging on Dream’s shirt. “Gimme the cloudy, Dream, I want s’more.”

“George, no.” Dream passes the cloudy jar to someone over George’s head. He carefully pries his hands off of his shirt, letting George’s face smush into his belly.

(George has always known that Dream has had very pronounced abs. He didn’t think they would be this  _ hard _ .)

He props his chin on Dream’s stomach, giving him the best pleading eyes he could muster. “Please?”

Dream squishes his cheeks together between his palms, like they’re seven years old again. “Ask me again in a varga.”

George makes a whiny noise, pulling Dream down on the log next to him. Dream goes easily, shuffling them around so George can rest his head on Dream’s shoulder.

“ _ Dreaaaaaam _ ,” Quackity says (yodels, more like), a glint in his eye George has long come to associate with mischief. He tosses his guitar into Dream’s outstretched hand. “What’s that song, the one that, like––the song. For–– uhhh, the thing. How does it go?”

Quackity waggles his eyebrows.

(George is a little sus of them.)

“Slick, Quackity, very slick,” Dream mumbles, sitting the guitar on his lap. “It’s the blueberry one, right?”

“Yeah yeahyeah, the blueberry one.”

Dream hums, testing out different chords. “Wait–wait, that was it.” He strums it again. “There. Okay. Um.”

_ Well, damn, you look so good _

_ Laying there wearing nothing but my t-shirt _

_ Your body's a neighborhood _

_ Wanna fly my lips all around it _

George thinks that Dream has the prettiest voice he’s ever heard.

George thinks that he wouldn’t mind it if Dream sang to him.

(George thinks that he likes Dream more than he cared to admit.)

(George wants.)

_ Kiss you each morning _

_ With strawberry skies _

_ 'Cause I get so lost in _

_ Your blueberry eyes _

_ I'm running through my dreams to _

_ See you in the light _

_ 'Cause I get so lost in _

_ Your blueberry eyes _

* * *

George wakes up to a pounding headache but no nausea, thankfully.

(His eyes are brown.)

(George feels sick, as if he had heartstrings missing.)

(Molting hurts less.)

  
  


* * *

  
  


Dream touches down on Karl’s landing pad, the lurid green and purple wood visible from wingbeats away.

He’s smacked in the face by a cerulean wing. “What the shu––honk, Karl?”

“NO TIME!” Karl screeches, turning around to dump a ton of parcels into Dream’s arms. “We didn’t think you would be here this early! I’m not done with my gifts for Corpse!”

Skeppy’s already looting through the bag strapped to Dream’s side. “What’d Bad send me?”

“Muffins and a letter –– Quackity!” Dream’s wing cuffs Quackity on the head so hard his beanie falls onto the ground.

“MH BHRNE!” Quackity shouts, crumbs flying from his mouth and muffins falling from his pockets as he nosedives towards the ground.

Red appears behind Dream, bag already strapped to his waist. “Wait, is it not a full moon?”

“It is, but ––  _ ow _ !” Someone whacks Dream’s wings from behind, nearly making him drop Karl’s parcels. “ _ Skeppy _ !”

“ _ DREAAAAAAAAAM _ !” Quackity screams. “YOU _ PROMISED  _ TO SING THE BLUEBERRY SONG!”

“That was only if I did the thing, which––”

“YOU SHUCKING _ DIDN’T _ !” Quackity cackles. “I KNOW FOR A _ FACT  _ YOU SHUCKING DIDN’T!”

Dream’s face is embarrassingly red, which is enough to tell the Rapids what they need to know. “No, I didn’t.”

“You’re such a nimrod,” Karl snorts from where he’s shoving more parcels into a fairly large bag.

Dream sighs.

Red takes the packages from Dream’s arms and starts handing them to Karl. “Why the blueberry song?”

“Because,” Dream huffs, shifting his arms, “ _ Quackity _ forgot what color George’s  _ eyes _ are.”

“Wow,  _ Quackity _ ,” Skeppy says sarcastically. “How could you forget what color George’s  _ eyes _ are?”

“And then he doesn’t even have the decency to pick a  _ new _ song that actually  _ does _ match the color of his eyes!” Dream says as if Skeppy hadn’t spoken.

(“The audacity,” Red mutters.)

“Waiwaiwaiwaiwaiwait, okayokayokayokay,” Quackity says, holding his hands up in surrender. “You know how many songs are about brown eyes?”

(“I don’t know man, that’s pretty offensive to brown eyed people,” Karl says. “Wait, don’t you have brown eyes?”

Quackity glares at him.)

“You didn’t even ask me to change the song, Dream! Why are ya’ pinnin’ this on  _ me _ ?”

Dream flushes bright red once more. “Look, it would be too obvious, okay? Literally all of us have brown eyes, and everyone’s in a couple already.”

“Quackity’s not.”

“Quackity––”

“Quackity can’t date; he doesn’t know what the color of people’s eyes are,” Karl says in a nasally voice. Quackity cuffs him over the head with a wing, causing Karl to start throwing random gift-making scraps at him.

“I gotta bone to pick with you, Dream,” Skeppy says, fingers flying as he threads what looks like obsidian and ruby beads onto a wind chime, “you gotta start coming, like, vargas before we need to go to the Greater because we are  _ not _ prepared, kāne. Creator.”

“Wh––Why are you blaming me? You’re the one leaving these things to the last minute!”

“Yeah,” Red says, package in hand. “Why are you leaving these things to the last minute? We all knew Dream was coming yesterday.”

Three pairs of eyes stare at Red.

“Excuse me?”

“What?”

“What the clicknak.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song: blueberry eyes by MAX ft. Suga from BTS
> 
> legends, the both of them
> 
>  ** _AVIAN SOCIETIES HAVE THREE GENDERS POGGGGGGGGGG_**  
>  • kāne: man in Hawaiian  
> • māhū: third gender eg. nonbinary in Hawaiian  
> • wahine: woman in Hawaiian


	5. ⏁⊑⟒ ⏁⍀⎍⏁⊑

Mulling paint is a long and tedious process, of which George allows himself to watch the goings-on in the Greater and contemplate his existence.

(Perhaps not as morbidly as that may seem.)

Greens in particular –– he can tell that he’s mixing green or yellow paint because they mix differently. Yellow is easier, because flower petals tend to dissolve into finer pigments than leaves do at first, making it easier to mull.

Green takes work to make perfect. It’s even harder considering that George can’t even see the difference  _ between _ green and yellow in the first place.

He runs the glass muller over the pigment and binder in circular motions, massaging each little leaf particle to ensure that it’s evenly coated with binder.

Dream should be coming back from the Alku in a few vargas.

(The amount of times George has said something like that in the past phoeb––)

See, Dream shouldn’t be going around this often to other societies. Usually, he takes a couple phoebs to go around to all the societies that he flies to on behalf of the Greater to allow other societies to come to them as well in the in-between time.

Even then, multiple flights to go the great distances to other societies is taxing on one’s wing muscles. George can barely stand flying to the Rapids and then heading straight back with the amount of parcels Dream carries. He can’t imagine speeding to the Sleepy Bois, let alone with packages.

Is Dream–– ignoring him?

(Can’t be, right?)

He always ditches George, like, five doboshes after a flight. Then he takes a whole quintant to sleep off the flight and disappears the next day, onto the next society.

(He spends more time at each society than he has in the Greater. Than he has with  _ George _ .)

It’s jarring to realize you can’t fly over to your best friend’s tree and bug him about wing management. To not see green wings unfold in the morning through the leaves swaying in the wind. To constantly keep track of where he is, wondering––

( _ if he’ll come back to you _ )

He’s going to give George feathers the color of Skeppy’s if he keeps stressing out George this much.

His mulled paint is almost going past the edges of his glass pane. He quickly scrapes it all back into a neat little puddle in the middle, careful not to leave any streaks behind.

_ Niki, I miss the days when _ ––

_ Niki, he’s gone _ ––

_ Niki, when did it go all wrong? _

Oh, Creator. Oh, Creator, he can’t get any tears in the paint mixture. That’ll screw everything up.

Sapnap likes to get on him for being a blushy boy, which technically isn’t even correct. His skin is just so pale that the slightest hint of color shows up, if at all. Dream’s the blushy boy out of them, his tanned face and freckles too soon in revealing his emotions.

He’d never thought he’d miss Dream screeching “ _ George!” _ but here he stands (sits, technically). 

Alone.

He tests the paint on a scrap piece of paper: it looks pretty opaque, blending out well with a wet brush.

(Then again, he can’t tell if the color looks good or not.)

He turns, fanning the page in hand. Ant’s tree house is only a few wingbeats away, so it shouldn’t take long to ––

“Ow!”

George slams into someone, a flurry of yellow (and/or) green appearing in front of him.

(He knows who it is, of course he knows who it is ––)

“Oh, Creator, oh, uh––” Dream steadies them both, gripping George’s forearms. “Are–are you okay?”

“Fine,” George says shortly, pulling away.  _ Maybe that was a bit harsh _ . “How was the Alku? Did Alyssa send anything over?”

“I mean, she sent  _ me _ over,” Dream shrugs, “isn’t that present enough?”

George scoffs. “Not really.”

“Why are you so mean to me, Georgie?”

Despite himself, he huffs a grin. “Blame it on the wing brain!”

“ _ Blame it on the wing brain _ ,” Dream wheezes. “What is  _ wrong _ with you?”

“Nothing much, really,” George says. “What’s wrong with you?”

Dream opens his mouth to say something, but then his brows furrow and his jaw snaps shut. George raises an eyebrow at him.

Oh, right. “Does this paint look okay?”

“Yeah, it looks fine,” Dream says absently. “George, are you mad at me?”

“‘m not mad at you,” George says, turning back to his workspace. He takes his glass pane and holds it over a small cup, scooping the ye–green paint into it. “You’re the one avoiding me.”

“I haven’t been  _ avoiding _ you! I spent all of Full Moon Night with you!”

George starts pouring the paint into little metal containers, filling it up to the brim. “That doesn’t count; you’re forced to go to those nights.”

“George––” Dream turns him around by the shoulders, barely giving George enough time to lift his wings before he’s crowded against his own desk.

Dream’s eyes are the most peculiar amongst Winged that George has seen, fading from lighter green (or so he’s been told) to a darker, more golden green. George sees it like a sunset or sunrise, the beginning and ending of the world churning till night fall.

Those eyes bore into his own, mist rolling over them like steam bubbling over a cauldron. “George, can you please look at me when I’m talking to you?”

“What, like the way you look at me when you drop off things and fly away?” George shoves Dream away from him, scoffing as Dream tries to regain balance with his wings. “Right.”

(He ignores the hurt look on Dream’s face. He ignores it. He most definitely ignores it.)

( _ i thought i meant more to you–– _ )

Dream opens his mouth to speak. George doesn’t let him.

He points the brush still in his hand at Dream accusingly, striding forward. “What changed these past few weeks? We were  _ fine _ last Full Moon Night, we were fine the day before you left for the Amigops –– what happened, Dream?”

_ “I fell in love with you, that’s what happened! _ ” Dream shouts, the corners of his mouth twitching downwards.

George stands there, dumbfounded.

Anguished is an emotion George has never seen on Dream, and it is simultaneously the most beautiful and the most heartbreaking thing he’s ever seen.

A tear rolls down Dream’s cheek, the little  _ plip _ onto the floor barely discernible over the leaves rustling in the summer winds. His cheeks are blotchy, eyes blown wide like he didn’t expect to reveal himself, hands held out before him beseechingly.

“.......me?”

Dream laughs disbelievingly. “Yes, you, you –– ugh, Georgie. I’ve tried to tell you so many times.”

“......really?”

Dream scratches the back of his neck, his wings curling slightly around him as if abashedly. “I, uh.......I gave you those flowers. Well, technically Tina gave them to me. I didn’t know–– I didn’t know about the meanings behind them, though, Until you pointed them out. Um.” He rocks to the balls of his feet, his stiff wings settling down behind him. “I gave you the cat as well? I, uh, did not know you would be allergic, clearly. The Notch apple was for you; Tommy switched it for a fake one. Techno actually gave me his Notch apple, which was very,  _ very _ generous of him, but I guess Tommy got to my bag before I left.” Dream huffs out a sigh, the red in his cheeks dissipating to a pink flush. “And then I had a bet with Quackity that if I, uh, if I didn’t confess to you before the next Full Moon Night, I had to, uh. Serenade you. Quackity chose the song; I–– I didn’t.”

George contemplates Dream, a tornado of thought swirling in his mind.

He lets out a chuckle ( _ relief, disbelief, contentment _ ). “You’re such a dumbshuck sometimes, Dream.”

Dream perks up, but doesn’t say anything.

He lets George walk towards him until there’s barely any space between them, lets George loop his arms around his neck. Lets George hug him.

George feels Dream exhale, slowly wrapping his arms and wings around him. Dream’s hands run carefully through the down feathers that cover the joints where George’s wings meet his back, and George sighs as his wings relax under Dream’s ministrations.

“I think I’m falling for you too,” George murmurs into Dream’s chest ( _ why _ is Dream so much taller, this is–– actually quite nice.) “Bratchny.”

Dream huffs out a laugh into George’s hair. “Don’t endorse Tommy any more than Phil does.”

“Mmm,” George hums. “I have better things to be doing.”

“ _ George _ !”

(There it is.)

* * *

“Man, you gotta just tell him at this point,” Sam says as he kneads tomorrow’s bread. Callahan gives him the thumbs-up from where he’s stoking the fire.

“I do, don’t I?” Dream mutters.

“You guys have always been the best of friends,” Alyssa says, opening the last package from the Rapids. “Ooh! Karl sent over some nice jumpers, how kind!–– Dream, if worst comes to worst, you and George can work this out. I know you can.”

“I thought you guys were supposed to give me  _ helpful _ advice, not tell me what I already know.”

Alyssa slides a plate of mutton and potatoes in front of him. As mouth-watering as her food usually is, Dream doesn’t feel as hungry as he was when he first arrived at the Alku.

“Have a little bit of faith in yourself, Dream,” Alyssa winks. “Not that you need any more to feed that ego of yours, but––”

“ _ Lys _ !”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update! it's been a rollercoaster of a week :-)


	6. the prologue (and the epilogue)

George is the only one Dream trusts to preen his wings, especially before his long flights to other avian societies. As their messenger, it’s important that Dream can fly without any aches and pains so that recovery before the next journey is easier.

(Also, it feels good when George preens his wings. He knows how to move his hands alongst Dream’s feathers in the most relaxing way possible, turning Dream into a positively gooey mess of emotion.)

“Stop squirming, you shuck,” George tugs out another dead feather that’s been itching Dream for weeks.

Dream sighs in contentment, sinking deeper into the blanket nest George had shoved him into. “‘M not moving.”

“Sure,” George says. He straightens another loose feather. “There.”

“There’s no way you’re already done,” Dream says. Mumbles, more like, he’s too comfortable in George’s nest.

“Dream, it’s already sunset.”

“C’mere then, it’s too late to be awake.”

George huffs out a laugh. “Dream, it’s _sunset_.”

“Yeah,” Dream mumbles. “Don’t you have trades tomorrow?”

“Yeah, so I’m preparing for them.”

“Do it tomorrow,” Dream whines, letting his head loll to his other shoulder. “Please Georgie, before I leave?”

He hears George’s feet pitter–patter towards him, however light he’s trying to be with his footfalls. The corner of Dream’s mouth quirks up, satisfied with this small victory.

George sees it and scoffs amusedly. “Shut up.” 

Dream feels George’s hands pull away some of the blankets, letting him drop his cold feet straight into the warmth of his lap.

He, impatient and impulsive as always, grasps George’s wrist and pulls him into the little blanket cocoon so hard George squawks in protest, Dream’s wings pressing uncomfortably against George’s nest.

“ _Dream_ ! I worked hard on your wings! Don't you _dare_ mess them up now, you–– you clicknak.”

“Mhm,” Dream agrees, shifting George in his lap so he can tuck them into the blankets properly. George huffs, but allows Dream to position them the way he wants, Dream’s wings draping over the both of them.

George lays his head on the junction between Dream’s neck and shoulder, the goggles on his head digging uncomfortably into Dream’s skin. Dream pulls them off, chucking them away into George’s treehouse.

“I worked hard to make those goggles,” George gripes, but wraps his arms around Dream’s middle regardless.

“Mhm,” Dream says.

His eyelids are very, very heavy.

He lets them flutter close.

It feels like all the time in the world has passed and yet none at all, when Dream’s eyes open to the sun barely peeking over the treetops. His hand’s tangled in George’s hair, scratching softly (when’d he start doing that?), George fully straddling his lap.

 _Oh_.

He takes George’s hand, the one resting on his shoulder, and turns it palm up.

George takes care of Dream and his wings, but often forgets to take care of himself, too. Dream runs his thumb over the blisters and calluses George has built up over the years from working with everything, from flowers to wood and paper, to the farm, to the rough emeralds the seaside traders use as currency.

He traces a scar that goes down the middle of George’s palm, still raised and angry red from when George’s pocket knife slipped a week before Full Moon Night. Dream raises it up to his lips and kisses it, the way he wanted to when he was watching Bad stitch up the wound.

Dream opens his wings, just enough to let golden light drape over George’s form, still sleeping soundly as ever, and–– 

He brushes George’s hair away from his face, revealing skin that had somehow escaped the marring that maps out George’s palms. He presses a kiss to George’s forehead before propping his chin on George’s head.

Dream feels like his heart might burst with all he feels for the Winged in his arms.

He thinks, _How could you look at this man and feel like he is undeserving_ ? _How could you not drop the world when he needs you to be there_ ? _How could you not love––_?

Oh.

 _Oh_.

He watched the sun grow as his smile did, letting out a disbelieving laugh into the high rise of morning.

 _I love you, George_.

Oh, Creator. Quackity is going to go absolutely bonkers if he ever finds out.

The bet was supposed to be a _joke_ , okay, he was probably going to just shout it across the Greater and have Sapnap vouch.

Now he has to do it properly, though. Now he has to make it the best confession ever. He has to––

He needs advice.

(Dream also has to leave for the Amigops, like, right now if he wants to make it to their society before midday.)

“George,” Dream says, nudging George. “Georgie, wake up.”

George just whines, arms tightening around Dream.

(He prays that George cannot hear the thunder of his heartbeat.)

“Georgie, I hafta–– I hafta leave for the Amigops; don’t you have trades you need to do?”

“Gimme five–– five vargas, Dream,” George yawns, “Doboshes.”

“Mhm.” George lets him go more easily now, and Dream _finally_ wiggles free of the mess of blankets and limbs. George shuffles into the middle of the nest with a sleepy sigh, wings stretching out before they fold around him once more.

Dream slings his bag of packages around his waist, securing it to his legs and chest. He straps his mask to his head –– it’s not particularly necessary, but it keeps dust particles out of his –– face orifices.

He takes one last look at George in his nest, the sun’s rays turning his cerulean wings as pale as the morning sky.

Dream is going to woo the _clicknak_ out of George.

* * *

Dream lands (read: crashes) onto the nearest Amigops’ platform, legs buckling underneath him.

“Dream, what the shuck?!” Rae yelps, nearly whacking a chair with her lavender wing. She starts untying the bags from Dream’s body, deft fingers loosening the bonds so fast Dream sags in relief in no time. “You didn’t have to –– stress your body out so much!”

“Ten more wingbeats and your wings would have given out,” Toast observes, peering down at Dream from behind a piece of sugarcane.

Rae smacks him. “Toast, go help out. Don’t just stand here. Bake a potato or something.”

“Rae, those are my raw potatoes.”

“Yeah, go cook one.” Rae slings Dream’s arm over her shoulder despite her being several heads shorter than him. Toast huffs, slinking away regardless.

Dream chuckles amusedly, propping himself up on one arm and running a hand through his hair. “Can I get some fixings on that, Toast?”

Toast sighs, reaching for the bacon. (Dream can see the smirk on his face, Toast ain’t slick.)

“Thanks, man.”

Rae helps Dream to a chair. “Did you at least take a break or something?”

“To fill up my water bottle, yeah.”

Rae just sighs as Dream grins sheepishly at her. “You’re even worse than Corpse. Speaking of –– ” she slides a jug of water in front of him, which he sips gratefully, “Sykkuno and Corpse are with, ah, Jack, Lud and Tina right now at their treehouse, if you wanna see them after you rest up a bit.”

“I know Bad wanted coffee beans,” Dream says, rolling out his shoulders. Rae brushes her hands over Dream’s wings, taking care of any accumulated dust or dirt. (She’s not George, but she’s also no slouch.) “But yeah, I’m beat. Oh! And I have –– I need help, on something.”

Toast hands him a bread roll, which Dream tears into eagerly. “You’ve come to the right place.”

* * *

“You guys are late to the party; I already bet that he’d confess to George before next next Full Moon Night.”

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s not the point, Quackity.”

“Then what is the point?” Quackity counters, rising from his seat. Corpse places a hand on his arm, giving him a look, and Quackity shuts up.

(Tommy tugs on Wilbur’s arm. “Why are we here again?”

Wilbur turns his brother around gently by the shoulders, pushing him towards the nearby meadows. “I’ll tell you later. Go play with Tubbo in the bees.”)

“I thought that was supposed to be a joke,” Sapnap says. Quackity shrugs.

Niki coughs, drawing all eyes to her. She glances at them all, smiling nervously, before gesturing at Alyssa with the numerous letters in her hand.

Alyssa nods to Niki before stepping forward. “Thank you, Niki. So, basically, we all agree that Dream and George are dumb shucks who are in love with each other? And that the pining is getting out of control and something must be done about that?”

Everyone murmurs in agreement.

Sykkuno blinks. “Wait, they weren’t dating already? Wh–what the ––? Wait, wait––”

(Corpse wheezes beside him, wings shuddering with laughter.)

“An emerald says they’re gonna get together afterwards,” Karl says absently, fiddling with the large, ever-present watch on his wrist.

Wilbur narrows his eyes at him. “Two emeralds Dream confesses first.”

“What makes you so sure?” Ant asks.

“Dream challenged Techno first.” Wilbur holds his hand out to inspect his nails as if the case is closed. Satisfied, he goes back to preening his primaries.

“George asked Niki for help first, though,” Sapnap says. He shrugs. “Kind of. Not really.”

“This an incomplete data set,” Sam says, “Dream only sent Alyssa one letter.”

“Because he would talk about it instead,” Alyssa tsks under her breath. “ _Constantly_.”)

“I have to write this down,” Sykkuno mutters. “Then I can get more emeralds, and then I can get scrap. Corpse, do you have graphite?”

Corpse hands him a thin stick of charcoal and Karl hands over a sheet of paper. Sykkuno starts scribbling and Corpse peers over his shoulder, Sykkuno’s dark green wings lifting to accommodate him.

Alyssa and Niki meet each other’s gazes, then roll their eyes simultaneously.

(Tubbo and Tommy peer over the log they’re hiding behind.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Tubbo asks, his fluffy, pale green wings fluttering anxiously.

“Probably something stupid,” Tommy says decidedly. He grabs Tubbo’s hand, similarly fluffy white wings struggling to balance the Fledgling. “Let’s go, Tubbo, they’re _boring_.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH YOU BET I AM WRITING MORE OF THIS WORLD. maybe not now but eventually. I love the world I've created and this feels like just the tip of the folklorian forest so to speak, especially with the recent amigops among us stream.

**Author's Note:**

>  **glossary:**  
>  • shuck/clicknak/bratchny: taken from the maze runner, vld-inspo, a clockwork orange. definitions? use ur imagination. :-)  
> • cloudy: an alcoholic drink. not much is known of its origin, making, or even how alcoholic it is. some say it truly depends on the person.  
> • tchocolatl: similar to chocolate (septimus heap anyone :eyes:)  
> • redne: mm spell it backwards ;-)  
> • warglins: similar to piglins; act somewhat like the goblins from harry potter  
> • blitzed: drunk  
> • clear: not drunk ;-)
> 
> • wingbeats: a measurement of space/time as it could refer to the distance of one wingbeat or the time it takes for one wingbeat. most times it refers to the first one as different wings = different times/lengths
> 
> • Notch apple: the enchanted golden apple, but it can be cut into pieces and stored indefinitely  
> • Creator: kind of like God, but there's no written records of the Creator as previous avian societies decided it could warp Creator legend beyond recognition –– better to pass the story down through word of mouth
> 
> • ticks: seconds  
> • doboshes: minutes  
> • vargas: hours  
> • quintant: day  
> • phoeb: month  
> (yes these are from VLD lmaooo)
> 
> • Fledgling: avians from birth to seven, where their first wing feathers grow in. Until then, they have soft downy wings that do as much as a chicken's, but they float and can run faster than a normal human (avianinnit anyone?)  
> • Winged: avians from seven onwards.  
> • Elder Winged (what Philza is): eventually a Winged becomes an Elder. No one knows when, why or how, only that's it's different for each Winged and it's very much Bird Brain Instinct (yes bird brain is a thing, but it's p normal lol)
> 
> see the Avian Societies in the notes of the series!!!
> 
> [flower meanings used](https://www.almanac.com/content/flower-meanings-language-flowers)  
> [if you need help with your avian societies](https://worldbuilding.stackexchange.com/questions/42813/what-should-dwellings-look-like-for-a-winged-humanoid)
> 
> Find all of my socials [here](https://hdnprplflwrs.carrd.co/). According to Ao3 statistics, only a very small percentage of people actually leave comments on fics. So if you enjoyed this fic, please consider commenting, it's free and easy and a great way to show the author their work is appreciated. :-)
> 
> **Links for the various crises happening in the world:**  
> [MASTERLIST 1](https://dotherightthing.carrd.co/)  
> [MASTERLIST 2](https://feminist-resources.carrd.co/)  
> Black Lives Matter petitions, donations, and other resources here [HERE](https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/).  
> If you can't donate, here's a [YOUTUBE PLAYLIST](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLlhfJSrlPNthnoD1XFDHzmdf6Mpt2pe-2&feature=share) where all proceeds from the videos are being donated to various BLM charities.  
> COVID-19 and others (U.S. Specific) [HERE](https://www.acf.hhs.gov/otip/news/covid-19-resources-services-support).
> 
> PLEASE STAY SAFE AND WEAR A MASK!!!!


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